


After the Victory Tour

by NephilimEQ



Series: The Missing Scenes [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Complete, F/M, Fan Fiction Gap, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Patching Each Other Up, more than friends, they just don't know it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Katniss comes back from the Victory Tour to a slightly different Haymitch than she left behind. She doesn't handle it as best she should...but she finally learns something new.





	After the Victory Tour

**Author's Note:**

> Anything in Italics is going to be direct quotes from the book.

 

** **

** After the Victory Tour **

I see Gale in the middle of the square, shirtless, and taking a lashing that is utterly horrifying.

Not thinking, I run over to him, yelling, “No!”, and I repeat myself two more times, stepping between the Peacekeeper and Gale, putting up a hand to try and stop the brutal torture, but without hesitation he reaches up, pulls my hand down, and then hits me with a right hook across my left cheek.

I go down and I wince at the bruise that I know is forming, as well as feel the sting of a cut.

I am about to get up but then see the whip coming down and I turn, and manage to not cry out as it hits across my back.  Even through my thick coat and sweater, I can _feel_ it.

I brush it off and when Gale says my name and tells me he is okay and that I should just go, I glare at him as best I can and then stand back up between him and the Peacekeeper, who is putting the whip back into his hand, the entire time ignoring the throbbing in my back and shoulder.

He sees me standing there and an unpleasant smile crosses his lips.

“Move.”

The blood on his face is Gale’s blood.

I don’t move.

He raises the whip towards me, and in a menacing voice he adds, “You want another?”

Not thinking, I reply.

“Go ahead.”

Anything is better than seeing Gale whipped for trying to protect another citizen.  But suddenly, the whip is gone from his hand and out comes a gun, and the Peacekeeper cocks it and I brace myself for the impact…

…but then Haymitch shows up, hands in the air, stopping anything from happening.

_I see a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the man with the whip.  Bundled against the cold, my face free of makeup, my braid tucked carelessly under my coat, it wouldn’t be easy to identify me as the victor of the last Hunger Games…_

_But Haymitch has been showing up on television for years, and he’d be difficult to forget._

“Whoa, whoa, whoa--”

“Get out of my way!” the Peacekeeper barks out, but Haymitch stays between me and him.

“You don’t want to shoot her,” he says, motioning to me with one hand.

“How about I shoot both of ya?”

“Look, commander, you’re new here, _trust_ me, I’m trying to help you.  I’m Haymitch,” he says, and at saying his name I see something in the Peacekeeper’s eye that surprises me.  A flicker of fear.  The Peacekeeper pauses.  “You recognize her?” he says, pointing back at me, “Katniss Everdeen?  Darling of the Capitol?”

The man drops his gun.

“She interfered with a Peacekeeper,” he spits out, and Haymitch quickly counters with, “I never said she was _smart_.  Look, you already got a couple of lashes in--”

The gun is suddenly raised once more as he says loudly, “That’s not good enough, she’s an agitator!”, but then he’s distracted when Peeta comes from nowhere and puts himself between Haymitch and the gun, trying to placate the Peacekeeper with simple words, but Haymitch moves him behind him, and I suddenly realize that he’s putting himself in harm’s way for all _three_ of the people behind him.

“Look, are you sure Snow wants three dead Victors, here?  Cause that’s what we’re looking at…it’s bad enough that you marked up her face on the eve of the big wedding.  Let it go.  And we will, too.”

Silence.

He drops his gun and I see Haymitch breathe a sigh of relief.

“Alright, okay.  But next time, it’s the firing squad.”

“Excellent idea.”

“I don’t care who she is,” he hisses into Haymitch’s face, and then he turns and yells, “Clear the square!  You’re all under curfew!  Anyone out after dark, will be shot on sight!” He turns his glare back on my Mentor. “Get him out of here.”

He nods and then comes and helps me and Peeta get Gale to my house.

\--

Later that evening, my coat and sweater off, wearing only my thin, gray, clingy shirt, I am taking a break from watching over Gale, sitting by the lit fireplace in the other room, wondering why the Peacekeeper, who I now know to be called Cesar Thread, looked almost afraid when Haymitch told the man his name.

What had Haymitch done to make even a Peacekeeper wary of him?

And that’s when I realize…I have never asked Haymitch how many people he had to kill in his games.  It was a special year, the Second Quarter Quell, and there had been twice as many tributes, which means that he probably had to kill more than nearly any other victor.

I wonder about that for a moment, but decide that it doesn’t do well to dwell on it, and turn my thoughts to other things about my mentor.

I think of all the times I have been in his house.

More than I have been in Peeta’s.

I know that Haymitch drinks to deal with the memories, but it isn’t the only thing that he does.  I doubt if anyone else notices anything besides the liquor bottles when they walk into his house, all of them in various states, neither completely full nor empty, but I do.

Besides the bottles, he has books.  They are all over his house, covering every available surface that is not occupied by Ripper’s white liquor, and I have actually seen him more than once with a book in his hand as he dutifully makes his way through another bottle.  The rest of him may be numb, but his mind never really is; which, I guess, is the reason why he is so determined to drink himself to sleep.

To oblivion.

And I understand it.  I am the same as Haymitch.

Just as I think his name, he appears in the doorway, as though he heard me thinking his name, and I look at him.

“I thought you were busy getting drunk,” I say, not caring how I sound.  I am tired and exhausted, and worrying over Gale has drained me more than I will admit to anyone.  He raises an eyebrow at my words and simply shakes his head.

“Nope.  Thought I’d stay sober tonight,” he says, walking into the room approaching me from behind the couch.  “Besides, I think it was a good thing I did,” he adds, gesturing to my back.  I am confused, but then he approaches me, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on my shoulder as he says, “Why didn’t you tell me he got you with the whip?”

His fingers move slightly down and I wince when I feel him press into the muscle just under my shoulder.

I shrug, regretting my choice to do so the instant I do the action, feeling the skin tighten uncomfortably.

“I forgot,” is all I say, and even though he gives me a skeptical look, it’s the truth.  In the midst of trying to save Gale from the Peacekeeper and the chaos that followed, the pain of the whip striking my back was all but forgotten, but now that he reminds me of it I can feel a long mark running down from my right shoulder to my left hip.

He presses his fingers into my other shoulder and says in a quiet voice, “Take off your shirt…”

I look at him over my right shoulder, mimicking his look, one eyebrow raised, and he does the same.

“I can’t clean you up if you stay _covered_ up, now can I, sweetheart?  Either take it off, or I’ll do it for you.”

From the tone in his voice and the arch of his eyebrow, I know that he is being serious, so I begin to reach for the hem of my shirt, but then I stop and ask, “Why can’t mom do it?”  However, as soon as I ask the question, his eyes cloud over slightly, and he says, “She’s sleeping upstairs with your sister.  Peeta’s sleeping next door.”

From the look he’s giving me I know that he’s subtly reminding me that I should be doing the same, but I harden my gaze, and he simply shakes his head.

“Stubborn,” I hear him mutter under his breath, and the semblance of a smile crosses his lips.

I roll my eyes, but reach once more for the bottom edge of my shirt and pull it over my head, letting out a small groan as I feel the skin on my back stretch and pull at the motion of my arms, so I quickly tear the shirt off, not feeling the least bit self-conscious sitting in front of Haymitch in just my bra and pants.

He nudges me slightly, so I move over on the couch, and he moves to sit beside me, motioning for me to turn, so now I sit with my right side towards the fire, my mentor behind me, gently taking care of my injury.  It hurts more than I expect it to when I feel him begin to rub a cloth covered in alcohol over the wound that I cannot see.  Curious about the pain, I look at the shirt I have just pulled off and I am surprised to see the back of it heavily stained with a long, diagonal line of blood that covers more than a quarter of the shirt.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” I hear him hiss through his teeth, as though he was the one with the alcohol stinging on his shoulder.  “This was just one hit?”

I nod.

“Yeah.  Just one.”

I don’t have to look at him to know that he is shaking his head.

He continues to move the cloth down my back, and during that time I manage to not make a single sound…but then he brushes the cloth along a spot near my spine, causing my bra clasp to dig into the cut along with the alcohol and my body stiffens and I let out a small gasp of pain.  Damn!  If just _this_ hurts me this much, then what must have Gale suffered through?

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Haymitch mutters under his breath as his fingers nimbly undo the clasp on my bra.  “But I have to do this.”

I nod, short and curt and say, “Yeah, I know.  Just…get it over with, okay?”, trying to ignore the fact that is seemed to be all too easy for him to undo the clasp.

He chuckles darkly.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart…”

I am starting to hate his nickname for me.  I didn’t like it before the Games, then for a couple of days before and little while afterwards it was okay; like some sort of code name that he used only for me…but now I hate it, yet again.  It makes me feel like I’m twelve-years old, not eighteen, and I hate it.  Here I am, sitting in front of him in just my pants, my bra undone, my knees drawn up to my chest for modesty, and he has the nerve to call me ‘sweetheart’?

He continues his ministrations and I bite my tongue, making sure not to give him any more fuel.  He plays with words like I do with a bow and arrow; they’re always waiting, idly sitting in the quiver of his mind, but the instant you give him a target, he lets them fly quicker than I could ever shoot any of my arrows.  His mouth is a deadly weapon and I’ve seen him use it more times than I can count over the past few long months.

I notice that as his right hand finishes cleaning the laceration, his left hand lingers at the base of my neck, holding my hair back.

Realizing that it must be in the way, I reach back and pull it over my shoulder with my right hand, my fingers brushing against his for a brief second…but that second of contact is all that it takes to send a sizzling bolt of something warm right through me to settle low… _very_ low, in my stomach.

I purposefully ignore it, knowing that it’s simply proximity and hormones and has nothing to with anything else.

He is done with the alcohol and is now rubbing an ointment into it, and whatever is in the ointment is slowly heating up the skin around it, easing the aches that have been sitting in my muscles for the past few days.

I let out a small moan, not meaning to, and then sigh when I feel him rub something cool over top of it.  The two temperatures at the same time is unusual, yet wonderful; an icy coolness that feels good against the laceration, and a relaxing, ever-heating warmth that seeps into the muscles surrounding it, causing my whole back to feel as though I haven’t even been injured, my muscles relaxing, unknotting themselves on their own.

I turn my head slightly and give him a look, but his eyes aren’t on mine.  Instead, he continues to stare intently at my back. 

I can see the pain in his eyes, so I say, “Haymitch, I’ll be fine.”

He just shakes his head and absently runs his thumb along the edge of the strike along my back that I know will simply become yet another scar.  He is biting his lip and his eyes are intense, not moving from their resolute stare.  Small sparks are running through me from where his thumb touches me, but I ignore them, instead repeating his name.

“Haymitch.”

He looks up.

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat to him, looking him dead in the eye, my knees still pressed tightly to my chest…and after a moment, he seems to accept this and move on.

“Yeah,” is all he says as he stands up and grabs my shirt from off the floor.  As he walks away he adds, “I’ll bring you another shirt…”

I watch him leave, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious than before, hugging my knees tighter to my front.  Which is curious, because he is no longer in the room with me, but his presence still seems to linger in the air behind him, leaving me feeling exposed, which I am; my shirt is gone and my bra is undone.  I wonder for a moment how long he is going to be, but my question is answered as he suddenly steps back into the room and hands me a shirt, one that I quickly recognize as not being one of my own, but one of his. 

I lift an eyebrow in question and he just smirks at me and says, “You need something loose on you, something that won’t hurt your back.”

I nod.

“Right.”

Then, without even thinking about what I’m doing, I pull the shirt over my head and knees, as it’s large enough for me to do so, and then drop my knees, pulling out my bra from underneath the shirt, balling it up into my fist and tucking it into one of the pockets on my large pair of pants.

I notice his eyes following the movement and I want to blush, but I don’t, and instead stare straight back at him, remembering the training room and the night on the train.  Remembering all the times he has put himself in a similar position as he is right now, but never said a word.

Finally, after a moment of awkward silence, I say, “Thanks for…well, you know.”

He nods, his seam-gray eyes effortlessly holding mine.

“Of course.”

He then motions to the other room, where Gale still sleeps, and says, “You should go.  He should see you when he wakes up.”

I nod back and start to turn to make my way back to Gale’s bedside, but something inside of me seems to insist that I say something, and even though I’m not entirely sure where the voice is coming from, I listen to it and turn back around.

“Haymitch…”

He turns.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth and then stop, biting my lip, trying to make sure the words are just right.  After a long, almost awkward silence, I manage to find them.

“Thank you,” I say for the second time that evening.  “Not just for…you know, taking care of me, but for…well, for saving me.  And Peeta.  From…”  I can’t seem to bring myself to say Thread’s name, like it’s a curse word that I am scared to utter.

Haymitch simply nods.

“You’re welcome,” he says in that way of his, where a smile seems to shine in his eyes, though not on his lips, and I feel the corner of my mouth move up into a semblance of a smile at just hearing those two simple words.

He turns and is about to leave, but in a sudden movement on my part, I take two steps and reach my hand up to his shoulder and pull him into my arms.  The hug is brief, no more than three or four seconds, but it is enough.  We pull back at the same time, my arms falling from his shoulders, his hands dropping from where he’d placed them on my hips to avoid the injury on my back, and I give him another smile.  Then a look appears in his eyes I don’t quite understand…and I recognize the look.

The training room.  The train.  He never did remember the night on the train.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then instead starts to lean in, and I find myself holding my breath as he is now only inches away…

…and then Gale lets out a low groan.

Haymitch pulls back in such a subtle movement, that I barely notice it, acting as though nothing happened and then repeats his words from earlier, “You should go…keep an eye on him.”

I nod, agreeing with him, and he’s out the door before I realize what’s happened.  I go and sit back down next to Gale, placing a hand on his cheek, hoping to settle him, and at my touch he seems to relax and I breathe a sigh of relief.

\--

I wake up several hours later, in the dim gray light of the early morning, and I realize that it’s the sound of Peeta walking in that’s woken me up.

“Hey,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets.  “If you wanna, uh, get some rest, I can look after him for a while…”

I can tell that he’s being sincere and I am grateful for it.  One of us has to be the better the person, and because of things like this, I know it’s him.  But instead of saying thank you or telling him that I’m grateful for the offer, I simply check Gale’s bandage and say, “I’m gonna go get him more snow.”

I stand and turn away from him, ignoring hi kind gesture, hating myself for it, but knowing that I can’t let him think that I care for him any more than I really do.  With Haymitch, it’s different.  He and I both needed that moment last night…or was it early this morning?  Either way, it doesn’t matter, because unlike Peeta we are broken and no longer hold any more hope inside of us for the future.  We are both resigned to our fates, whereas Peeta has hope.

I will let him have that hope, but only a truthful one. 

 


End file.
